


akrasia

by lestvt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: ....kinda, Attempted Murder, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Crying During Sex, Established Relationship, Gratuitous conversations about eating each other's organs, Hannibal is as usual The Worst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post!Fall, Will Graham Has Daddy Issues, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will Graham is a Mess, Will Graham is a Tease, also in a sexy way, but like in a sexy way, but the person doing the hurting and comforting are the same, sounds like crack but i actually took it very seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: A·KRA·SIA -noun, "a state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will."Hannibal Lecter develops a kink for making Will Graham cry, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Except Will Graham, of course.But, as always, it's a dangerous game they play.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	1. the new name of the game

Tears stream down his face, but he doesn’t seem to realize. They must be cold against his cheeks, which are ruddy from continued exertion, _no doubt putting out heat_ , Hannibal thinks as he reaches forward to test that theory. Still, he doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as flinch when Hannibal’s fingers make contact, wiping them away. He simply blinks once, slowly, and allows it.

The reaction it causes in Hannibal is something truly outré - full-bodied and decadent as fine wine, just as intoxicating too. The realization strikes like liquid lightning, then lingers as a persistent static in the back of his skull: 

He's never seen Will cry. 

Will is as beautiful as ever like this, expression lax, unreadable to the untrained eye, impossible to decipher. But as he stands there, gaze sharp, pupils dilated, peachy lips ticked up, then stretched thin, Hannibal ponders to himself that even if in moments such as these Will was still, in fact, an open book, it would be a tragedy written in some dead language long since lost by man to time. One that only God, with his all-seeing eyes can read. 

Well, and Hannibal. But that should go without saying.

As though sensing his thoughts, Will breaks from his trance then. Without a word, he bears his teeth, almost grinning through a sob - though it's a joyless expression, more akin to the gaping maw of a snarling mongrel - and steps away, just out of reach of the hand Hannibal had been using to divest him of his tears. 

He nearly groans in agony, needing him closer. It would be humiliating if he were anyone else. Hannibal’s reaching out to him was essentially inevitable however - his desire to own every piece of this man, just as. And as soon as this notion crosses his mind, Will is tucking himself away, out of sight, though never out of mind. He doesn’t even bother to look back when he goes. Hannibal finds it utterly unacceptable. 

When Will is gone, the metal door closing with a muted thud behind him, the vibrant crimson of blood on linoleum fades to brown. The golden lights buzzing overhead go silent and flicker to a pale white. When Hannibal looks down, the deep navy blue fabric of his shirt has become an unnerving grey. The lavish room where he once stood has turned to an empty, unstimulating cell. 

It is dull here. Without Will.

Life is dull without Will Graham to color it. 

[...]

It's a dream.

Hannibal knows it even before waking alone in their bed - a somewhat rare occurrence, given Will has a habit of sleeping in for as long as he feasibly can most of the time. It’s a luxury he's never been afforded ere this new life, one he happily takes advantage of now that the nightmares have abated for the most part and the sheets don’t need to be changed as often. But it's not the first time, just like it is not the first time such a dream has come to him.

In fact, it's the fifth, and the sentiment remains the same, still rooted deeply in reality even during the day. Hannibal is wholly devoted to his love for Will Graham, and he is content for now to wile away the hours coaxing out and studying his every aspect. 

But he has yet to see him cry. 

Of course, there have been tears, the shimmer of his distress and the dawning realization of betrayal reflected in those stormy blues by a layer of watery film, a mirror behind metal bars. But a mirror image is only as reliable as the perception of the one gazing into it. And, as such, they've never gotten the chance to fully form, nor have they risen to and fallen from grace to take their rightful place in the cycle of the universe as their creators had, and as Hannibal might like them to. Never have they squeezed themselves from Will’s eyes with an aching, burning force, leaving them reddened and irritated as their owner. Not in Hannibal's presence at least. Though they have come close.

And, yes, Hannibal has heard Will's voice take on many forms - gravel and gasps and gagging - but never has he heard it crack with sorrow. With rage, to be sure, wet and unsteady and miserably frantic as he'd been while in the throes of encephalitis, but not with the full bodied sobs of his dreams. And what he wants now is to see it, to exacerbate it even further until it is almost childlike in its desperation, its absolute, demanding urgency. Because he deserves it, and Will is obliged to deliver. 

And also because Hannibal is simply curious. What sort of reaction would it procure from he, himself? And how might they get Will to that point? Which form would that path take? Would it be a straight line through a field of wheat, would it elevate, rising up over the snowy peak of a cold, coniferous mountain, or would it weave through the ruins of Ancient Greece? And would they travel on foot, or by car or plane? By boat perhaps. A boat sailed across an ocean of blood... or a river. 

The notion takes on a life of its own from there. It awakens something in Hannibal - a fixation, so to speak (one of many subcategories in the overall fixation that is Will Graham). He couldn't shake it even if he tried, he surmises (not that he has, he knows himself far too well for that). So, he doesn't. He lets it lie. 

And he waits. Waits for the opportune moment, meanwhile biding his time by dedicating page upon page of expensive drawing paper to sketching out the ways in which those specific, intense emotions might skew Will's handsome face. 

He just knows it would be a uniquely lovely sight, the real thing, contorted by sweet vulnerability, truly novel. And an invaluable learning experience for the both of them to be sure. Hannibal's imagination, his drawings, intricate and careful as they are, likely don't even come close to capturing the true majesty of the moment. But, oh, how he longs for a glimpse, and futile as they may be, he will not cease their creation, for these sketches are at present his sole means of culling the hunger. 

At least for now. Only when the timing is right, when “the moment” arises, will he finally take the rest for himself; and he finds great comfort in that thought.

Will, if he knew, likely would not. Comfort remains distant to him. At times, granted, it is easy for him to look and realize, to submit, yet he retains his suspicions.

 _Cunning boy,_ Hannibal muses.

Still, he’s beginning to come around and accept the notion that comfort isn’t exactly what he wants, though that doesn’t mean he’s passive by any means. He’s much too gnostic in that way - too adept at what he does, sees too directly through most things Hannibal sometimes would rather he didn’t now that the deadly dance has been perfected and the purifying salt water has washed away most of the man-made film from his eyes. "Most" being the key word. 

However, that's not to say Hannibal hasn't undergone his own transformation at Will's hands. Intentionally or otherwise, he too is changing. He too is coming to terms with the idea that perhaps an equal isn’t _exactly_ what he wants either. 

Though it’s as much a curse as it is a gift. Hannibal does not feel fear for most things; death or capture or torture, not even indignity, at least not anymore. But occasionally, he does fear Will - not the man himself, per say, merely the power he possesses. But at the same time, Hannibal is infinitely grateful for his company and his continuously wondrous way of thinking. His insight remains ever subversive, never uninteresting. Like in this instance, for example. 

When he emerges from their room to descend the stairs of their temporary home here in Havana, fully cleaned and dressed for the day, Hannibal finds Will on his favorite sofa in the foyer. Physically, that is. Spiritually, he seems to be wandering around some distant place in the confines of his lovely mind, judging by the blank stare he has fixed to the ceiling. 

Loath though he is to interrupt whatever train of thought has his beloved so preoccupied, Hannibal is even more loath to allow him the luxury of escapism. Like in his dream, Will’s freshly-shaven face is unreadable, and for one reason or another, this bothers him immensely, here in the waking world. 

Perhaps, Hannibal thinks as though to ease himself, he’s in another time - reliving their past. After all, the idea that he isn't inherently at the center of each and every one of Will’s fantasies is supremely frustrating and makes his heart beat fast in that way it hardly ever does. And it’s made all the more frustrating by the fact Hannibal knows firsthand precisely how dangerous and irrational such a desire can be, especially when the subject of said desire is one Will Graham.

It wouldn’t be the first time he brought them both to the brink. But Hannibal does not, and cannot afford to yield control. Not now, when he has so much to lose or, rather, to lose the chance to gain. 

“Good morning, Will,” so he greets, shattering the silence. He is awake and they are together; no more need for wandering minds. 

Will blinks twice at the sound of his voice, clearing the fog of vivid reconstruction from his eyes, simple as that, again the same way he had in Hannibal’s dream. It’s easier for him these days - comes more naturally, like sleep itself. Much more so than other things, with which they’ll both likely always struggle. In testament to this fact, Will glances at him once, then just as quickly returns his gaze to the ceiling. 

“Something is troubling you,” Hannibal observes from the doorway. He doesn't move; it’s imperative that Will feels he isn't trying to invade his space when these moods strike. 

Will makes a short humming sound at a low pitch, after which comes another drawn out, penetrating silence. Eventually, the words appear to take shape for him, and he crosses his arms over his stomach. Though he does not see the movement, Hannibal can tell from the way his shoulders shift. 

“Submitting ourselves to old habits again, are we, Doctor Lecter?” Will questions with a caustic air, upper lip briefly twitching in a forced approximation of a smirk, then settling into a frown when it fails to hold its shape. 

Intrigued, Hannibal examines his posture, or at least what he can see of it from where he stands across the room. Will’s back is slumped into the armrest of the sofa, sock-clad feet poised on the one opposite, neck and jaw visibly stiff. And he has his face now half-hidden behind a nearly-forgotten mug of room temperature coffee (he knows because no steam rises from it). Even if it weren’t completely evident from his body language and tone however, these days Will typically only calls him by his title when he’s on the defensive. 

Hannibal moves slowly forward. As he does he notes that the skin around Will’s eyes has taken on a violet-green tint. Additionally, he’s still wearing the clothes he came to bed in last night, and his t-shirt is mostly unwrinkled. It’s clear he hasn’t slept much, if at all. Hasn’t allowed himself to, more like, as he is still so apt to do (Hannibal is working on breaking him of that habit, among others, but it’s a process - a long, arduous labor of love). 

Then the coffee table comes into view. A few of Hannibal’s drawings are spread across it. The rest lay, rudely discarded, on the hardwood floor. 

“Will…”

“Don’t think you can sweet talk your way out of this one,” Will tells him. “Is this what you’re after now? Be honest.” He gestures to the pictures. “To see me weak, to make me _break?”_ He spits out the last word as though its heat could be measured in scoville units. 

“I am always honest with you, Will. The question is whether or not you choose to be receptive to that honesty.” Hannibal tilts his head. “Do you consider crying to be a sign of weakness?" he wonders. “I never took you for the type of man bereft of the ability to embrace the power of his emotions.” 

“Don’t try to derail the conversation. We’re not talking about me right now.” 

“On the contrary. Do you see another likeness here, sketched in such intricate detail?”

Will pauses at that. The moment is static. 

“Only yours..." He laughs, mirthless. "Let me guess, you prefer lead in your pencils to graphite, huh?”

Hannibal smiles. “As a matter of fact, despite its infamous toxicity, lead is considered a rather nonreactive element. Whereas graphite, on the other hand, is known to be a fantastic conductor of electricity and is commonly used in the production of batteries - subtle in its lethality, mundane. I find it makes for slightly more dynamic lines. But when it comes to my chosen tools, I am far more concerned with the keenness of their points than their overall chemical makeup.” 

Will sits up abruptly, planting his feet firmly on the floor. Afterwards, he sets the mug down over one particularly wretched rendition of his own crying face, and his mouth contorts again when it’s done. 

“Why?” he asks suddenly, voice airy. “I just can’t wrap my head around it. What about it do you find so appealing exactly?”

Hannibal tuts. “Beautiful, empathetic Will, ignorant only when it benefits you. You’d understand perfectly well why if only you would allow yourself to.”

Will scowls. “Okay, fine,” he bites out. At last, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it.” 

"And if I did?" Hannibal prompts. "How would that make you feel?"

Will’s scowl turns up. "Lazy," he sing-songs, taunting.

Hannibal chooses to ignore the nod to conversations past. "Would it make you feel powerful?" he presses on. "As though you are finally in complete control of your situation? Is that truly what you wish for?" 

Will's eyes scan the room as if he's searching for an answer. "Agency is an illusion we use to placate ourselves,” he flatly states. “What about you? Isn’t that what _you_ want? Complete control,” he crosses his arms again, “that’s what this is - another means of manipulation. Isn’t that right, Doctor?” 

“I do not seek to placate you, nor do I seek to control you, Will. I simply wish to bear witness to whatever future you deem fit for us, and perhaps to provide guidance where it is requested of me.”

“Bullshit!” Will hisses. “Bull-fucking-shit, Hannibal. You wanted me to see you, to really see you? Well, now I do.” 

Hannibal purses his lips and suppresses the urge to chide him for his foul mouth. When he doesn't immediately respond, Will lets out a wry laugh and rubs at the creases of his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Unfortunately, the prolonged silence does not compel him to speak further. 

The Caribbean breeze comes through the open windows then, fruity to the taste. As Will stands and turns his back to Hannibal, it picks up speed and ruffles his hair. It's grown out quite a bit since they settled here and it's beginning to look especially wild, fraying and damaged at the ends. It must be stifling in this tropical heat; Hannibal makes a mental note to offer to cut it for him one of these days. For now, he'll take the chance to admire the way it causes sweat to gather on his nape, glistening in the sunlight, just begging to be licked away. 

Hannibal considers acquiescing to this impulse. It's near overwhelming, the desire to wrap an arm around Will's torso, then place his other hand around his throat and pull him close to do exactly that, but he thinks better of it just as soon as it arises. Such a move would be risky at best even when Will is in one of his more pliable, indulgent moods. To do so now would be asking for a fight, one that could very well end with either or both of them bleeding out. But, tempting as that possibility sounds, Hannibal has something else in mind for today. 

"The temperature is suitably mild this morning. Would you care to accompany me on a walk? After I feed you of course." 

Will twists his neck and shoots him a skeptical look over his shoulder, brow arched. He appears as though he's about to ask a question of his own, jaw flexing enticingly, but stops himself. 

"Fine," he mutters, already moving towards the stairs. 

Hannibal nods. "Breakfast will be served in an hour." 

Another scoff. Then Will brushes by with that persistent scent of indignation following close as he heads back up to the second floor. Hannibal stands alone in the foyer for a minute once he's out of sight, listening. Above he hears a door bang closed. Soon after the metal pipes creak near musically in the walls, followed by the sound of rushing water.

It's somewhat disconcerting, just how accurately this moment echoes Hannibal's dream, atmosphere and all. That's how he knows for certain he's made the right choice by following through with this. The crescendo is drawing closer. And whatever the outcome, Hannibal welcomes it - anticipates it, really. He’s not afraid of the way Will is, only what he inspires. But the world - his - _their_ world now, has never been so effervescent as it is when Will is subverting his expectations. 

And endlessly does he subvert them. Though sometimes he still requires a bit of a push in order to go on doing so, Hannibal is always happy to provide. 

And if he can’t have everything, he’s content for them to die at each other’s hands. 

[...]

Breakfast is a swift and tense affair, much to Hannibal’s dismay. Their meals have always been a great pleasure for him, the most intimate thing they share, barring sex when Will allows it (another thing they’re still working on). But he’s making his displeasure known without saying a word, and it feels such a shame to let the moment pass like this. Worse yet, Will finishes less than half his plate in under ten minutes before curtly excusing himself and disappearing back upstairs. 

Hannibal can't reign in his disappointment as he watches him go, nor the curious almost-concern that blossoms in his chest when the water kicks on again a minute later. He finishes eating while he wonders what Will could be doing, then tucks his leftovers in the fridge for him when he's done. 

Hopefully, Hannibal thinks, after the air is cleared he can talk him into eating again. Preferably before tomorrow. It’s never good to sleep on such dire moods, especially with an empty stomach. And if not… Well, Hannibal certainly isn’t above using force. Though he doesn’t prefer it. 

He is almost finished washing the dishes by the time Will reemerges. His cheeks are flush when Hannibal cranes his neck to look at him, again so similar to his dream, but everywhere else he’s gone pale - too pale for having lived in warm, sunny places for as long as they have. And despite the high protein meal Hannibal just fed him, he appears even more fatigued than he did before, the veins in his eyes noticeably thickened and bulged. 

He turns back to the sink. It’s with a near-shiver of disappointed revulsion that it dawns on him: 

Will forced himself to throw up. 

As much as Hannibal would like to confront him directly about why he feels compelled to do such an awful, offensive thing, he doesn’t. Instead, he notes out of the corner of his eye that he’s dressed himself in an off-white linen button-up, the sleeves of which are cuffed to his elbows, along with a pair of khaki shorts. He's also wearing his glasses now, a choice Hannibal suspects he made as a subconscious (or conscious) defense mechanism rather than because he needs them. Because he doesn’t, not to go for a walk. 

No, it's more likely a way of distracting from his ever expressive eyes. He is creating a shield for himself by putting them on - a kind of tactic for hiding in plain sight, as it were, one carried over from his old life. But, assuming Will is even remotely aware of what he's doing and why, he must realize the habit's ineffectiveness. 

Once Hannibal finishes rinsing the last dish, he turns and retrieves a fresh towel for his hands before facing Will as he wipes them dry. He’s sitting at the island, balanced on the edge of the stool, his gaze pinned unblinkingly on Hannibal with something predatory glinting in the dark void of his pupils. The intense, hungry energy radiating off of Will, even in his sickly state, is enough to cause goosebumps and reawaken an overwhelming sense of pride in him. Hannibal feels his smile grow warm and wide, and it’s utterly beyond his control. 

For a moment, Will’s words - “agency is an illusion we use to placate ourselves” - ring true for him. Fortunately, the moment is fleeting. 

Unfortunately, Will stops himself before he can return the gesture. He licks his lips to hide the slip, but Hannibal catches the way the muscles in his cheeks barely twitch in the millisecond before he corrects himself. As if he could hide anything from him - as if he doesn’t remember that Hannibal is the most fastidious and observant person he’s ever met and therefore nearly impossible to lie to. As if he hadn’t the scars to remind him. 

It is more than enough for now. But not for long. 

This firmly in mind, Hannibal hangs the towel and makes his next move. 

“Shall we?” He offers his hand. 

Will ignores the gesture, sliding off the stool with a dishonestly put-upon groan. He stretches his neck and it cracks audibly. Hannibal is tempted to reach out and rub it for him, if not snap it for his insolence. 

"Alright," Will huffs, resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”

Hannibal frowns, but says nothing as he leads them out into the tepid morning. He puts his hand on Will’s lower back when they step through the threshold, testing the water’s surface for things that bite lurking beneath, but none emerge. Will allows the contact without so much as an incredulous glance in his direction. Or, God forbid, a smile. The antithesis of receptive. And not a promising sign. 

Hannibal contemplates his various possible courses of action while they walk. With all the things they’d already done to each other, none of those atrocities alone had been enough to provoke the desired reaction. Not even dismantling the surrogate family he’d created for Will right before his eyes had done it. Though Hannibal considers perhaps later, in private, he might have sobbed on Abigail’s behalf. But what would make him do it now, in front of Hannibal? And what purpose would lead to the most satisfactory result? 

Suddenly, he longs to relive the moment of their dance - he is an akrasia addict, searching for the next big high. They both are. But nothing could compare. That moment was utter perfection in that it was everything Hannibal had known he wanted it to be. And more, because in his arms his love had surprised him yet again. And Hannibal remembers, with great reverence, how blissful their fall had been. 

_Perhaps a dog_ , he thinks then. But it's a passing idea, for harming any animal for Will to see would more likely only facilitate their premature end. A complete end for one or both of them. 

“How are you feeling this morning, Will?” Hannibal wonders, testing the waters once more. 

“Great,” he lies through gritted teeth. 

“Well rested?” 

He glares at him out the corner of his eye. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Hannibal sighs shortly. “Yes, that is the question. How many hours was it last night? Three or four?”

“You should be asking how many minutes,” Will snarks under his breath. 

“You’ve lost weight as well,” Hannibal says, allowing his displeasure to seep into his tone. It seems to him a little heavy-handedness would not go amiss here after all. “Tell me, Will, is bulimia something you’ve dealt with in the past, or is this a relatively green development?”

Will immediately balks and stops walking, aghast. He removes his glasses and rubs his forehead before answering. 

“I’m not bulimic.” 

“So, the issue is with the food. In that case you can rest assured, it has been quite some time since you’ve had to worry from where our meat is sourced. I would not risk exposing us merely for the sake of my… proclivities.” 

The ‘yet’ goes unsaid, but not unheard according to Will’s expression. 

“I’m not bulimic,” he says again, less antagonistic this time. “And I’m not worried about your sources. I wouldn't be here still if I was. I was dizzy and got sick. It’s probably just because I’m tired.”

“Well, then may _I_ rest assured that you will successfully keep down your full dinner and be off to bed at a reasonable hour tonight?” 

Will emits a scoff at that, followed by a sardonic, “Yes, _Dad_.” 

Hannibal, mildly taken aback, chooses not to react to his goading. Still, the metaphorical light bulb flickers on. Will shoots him a pointed, urging look, and then they begin again to walk. Hannibal studies him intently all the while, and Will shifts around suspiciously under his gaze. 

“Was your father particularly overbearing, Will?”

“Fuck,” he spits, cringing. “We’re not having this conversation right now.” 

“And by ‘right now,’ you do, of course, mean ‘ever,’” Hannibal observes rather solemnly, though more than anything else, he’s frowning at the curse. 

“Are you trying to make me feel _guilty,_ Doctor Lecter?” Will’s tone is utterly incredulous and he purposefully isn’t meeting his eyes again. “Seems kinda below you. You don’t need to know every piece of my past in order to get what you want from me. Besides, some scars are better left unseen.” 

“Some,” Hannibal concurs, “but I’d argue a strong desire to keep them covered up might also denote a need for further exploration into their cause.” 

Will lets a sharp breath out his nose. “I should’ve known you’d be impossible about this.” 

A long pause. 

“He was militant,” he eventually offers, seeing no other way out, “when he needed to be. Not overbearing, exactly, wasn’t around enough. But he did the best he could when he was, and I feel no resentment towards him. There, are you satisfied?”

Hannibal hums his understanding and allows him to leave it at that. “For now,” he relents. It’s a small mercy, a reprieve as thanks for being acquiescent, so to speak, if not just a bit dishonest. 

But Will, as always, remains unpredictable. He stops again, staring down at his feet and waiting until Hannibal does the same before looking up to meet his critical gaze with an equally piercing version of his own. His fingers flex, then curl. 

“You know,” he says with a smirk, “now that I’ve figured out the new name of the game, I won’t make it easy for you.” 

Hannibal chuckles, a lightness forming in his chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

The remainder of the walk is spent basking in the sounds of nature. The singing of the birds in the distance is muffled by the raging wind, but is lovely all the same. The air is fragrant and floral, and Hannibal catalogs the scent in his memory palace in a room juxtaposed with his office, so that no matter what happens in the future he may return to this place and time with Will. Along with all the rest. 

If he were anyone else, he might lament it’s inevitable end. But the longer they hike, the higher in the sky the sun climbs, and the more they begin sticking to the shady bits of the path. Eventually, the heat and Will’s fatigue catch up with him, he begins to drag, and they turn to head back in the direction of their temporary home almost simultaneously. And the moment forges on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so........ did you enjoy my wikipedia-level lead/graphite knowledge? lol
> 
> on a serious note, i have no idea how long this fic is gonna be when its done, its only very vaguely planned out. right now im guessing maybe 3-4 chapters total, but im notoriously bad at predicting these things. originally i was gonna post it all at the same time as like a 20k oneshot, but i got tired of waiting to share...
> 
> anyway, hannibal's POV really lends itself well to my style of writing, so when i started i kinda just naturally fell into it without really thinking... needless to say, im having a lot of fun so far lol
> 
> btw just a heads up, this fic isn't my main focus right now, so updates will probably be pretty slow
> 
> (to be edited...)


	2. an exchanging of vows of sorts

“It’s recently occurred to me that my existence might be dependent on the relative existence of others,” Will states two days later as they sit on the bedroom balcony which overlooks the Straits of Florida. 

He’s glowering down into the amber liquid in his glass in a way Hannibal can’t help but describe as a petulant pout. But the sunset hits the water and reflects onto his face, emphasizing his features, and Hannibal is almost disappointed in himself for the reaction it causes in him. Will is utterly charming, even when he shouldn’t be, and logically he knows this should concern him. But Hannibal is feeling exceptionally indulgent at the moment and somehow far more hedonistic than usual, so he can’t help but be forgiving. They are currently going through their own beautiful perversion of a honeymoon phase after all. 

He responds only after Will shoots him an expectant look, lip twitching with neurotic impatience. 

“Is that why you’ve remained here all this time despite your turbulent feelings towards me?” 

Will hesitates for three solid seconds before nodding. “That’s part of it.” 

“And what has inspired this sudden bout of philosophy?” Hannibal asks, because knowing the answer and hearing it are two entirely separate things. 

Will’s face pinches. “I’ve been trying to picture it, but I can’t - like that rendition of me has been irreversibly erased. I can’t remember how it feels to be him anymore.” He breathes shortly out his nose, almost smirking. “Not that I want to remember - not exactly, but at the same time never knowing for sure if I _could_ seems even worse. I don’t think I can continue to exist without the answer. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.” 

“Assuming that’s true, in what world do you imagine that version of you still exists? One where you kill me perhaps?”

Will really does smirk this time. It’s a stunningly savage expression. “No, I doubt even death would stop you from hurting me. I’m talking about a world where you’re _gone_. Where I’m… untouched by you.”

Hannibal grins back briefly. He enjoys the implication that even after his ultimate demise he would linger, if only in Will’s wonderfully vivid memory. The reverse is also true. 

“But you find you are unable to construct such a hypothetical.” 

Will nods again. 

“Does that frighten you?” 

His nose twitches as he answers. “I find it… impractical. It means I can’t predict myself around you any better now than I could before.”

“You crave agency though you doubt it’s validity,” Hannibal observes after a while. “But, Will, control is not meant for everyone. A monarch is simply a man without his subjects. Why do you feel as though you need to predict yourself in order to be who you wish to be?” 

He lets out a short laugh. “The same reason you do, I imagine.” 

Hannibal hums thoughtfully at that. “No two people are exactly alike in their expectations, either for themselves or for others. Your heightened empathy doesn’t change that fact - hence why I say control is not for everyone. What works to keep one person content may have the opposite effect on another.”

“So, you think my ‘contentment’ lies in the flat out devastation of autonomy?” Will practically spits his words. 

“Nothing so drastic. Perhaps its willful concession,” suggests Hannibal. “But I do believe it is a question worth asking. And only you, dear Will, are capable of unearthing the answer.”

“How aptly put,” Will mutters sarcastically, raising his glass to his lips. Hannibal watches as his throat rolls around a gulp. “It probably is a fossil by now. It even feels like I swallowed a rock.” 

“Stone is by no means infallible,” Hannibal soothes. “Very few things are. With enough heat and pressure, it becomes plasma.” 

“Malleable, like clay,” Will supplies. 

“Yes, and yet hazardous. If you were to attempt to mold something from it, it would undoubtedly melt your flesh and reveal the bones in your hands.” 

“So, am I the lava in this metaphor?” 

Hannibal tilts his head. The amused glint in his eyes is confirmation enough. 

“Guess that makes you one hell of a masochist,” Will chuckles. 

Hannibal’s grin deepens. “‘Sadomasochist’ would be rather more applicable in my opinion.” 

Will laughs again and shakes his head. “I’m not stone, molten or otherwise. Lately, I don’t even feel like water anymore. I think I’m becoming smoke.” _Like you_ , he does not say. 

“Or steam,” offers Hannibal. “Though they are not completely dissimilar.” 

Will looks up at that, staring at him with hard, narrow eyes. 

“Yeah,” he concurs after a while. “Steam.” 

Then, as his gaze shifts away, his mind too drifts off. He stares at the wall with a miniscule smile on his face and it’s clear he’s gone elsewhere, perhaps wading through a river on an early, cool summer morning, when the grass is still dew laden and fragrant. And for that brief moment he appears truly complacent. 

Then, suddenly his expression shatters. “But maybe I was wrong. If I actually went through with it,” he pauses, again to meet Hannibal’s scrutiny. “If I killed you… maybe I’d go back to normal.” 

“You were never ‘normal,’ Will, but you already knew that.” Hannibal switches the way his legs are crossed before continuing. “I don’t believe you crave ‘normality’ either. You crave self-sufficiency just as much as you wish to denounce it. It’s an expectation you hold yourself to without leniency while easily forgiving its absence in others.” 

“Is that where we’re similar, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks in an abrasive tone. “So, which ways exactly do we differ? You’ll have to point them out for me, the lines become less and less clear by the day. I’m even starting to talk like you.”

“You are your own person,” Hannibal assures, still smiling saccharinely at him. “Feeling a heightened sense of reliance on another human being doesn’t devalue that.” 

“Not even if I’m wholly reliant on them?” 

“Your ability to blur the lines so irreversibly is precisely what defines you as Will Graham. It’s a rare and singular gift - believing and remembering this ensures your continued existence, not the mere existence of others.” 

Will’s answering expression is systematically blank. He is mimicking what he thinks he sees behind Hannibal’s mask. Perhaps unconsciously, but, then again, perhaps not.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says. Just when Hannibal is about to rebuke him, he goes on, pointedly cutting him off. “I don’t mean you’re bad at lying - I’m saying the opposite. The way you lie is terrible specifically because you’re so good at it. Sometimes I wonder if you even know you’re twisting the truth… until you do.”

“I am also a slave to my philosophies,” Hannibal admits. “‘Morality’ and ‘truth’ as they are defined by man can be extremely restrictive. It’s amazing what the human mind can train itself to believe and therefore do when given free reign to explore its own limits. My curiosity defines me much the same as your empathy defines you, but I do not lie if I can help it.” 

“Yeah,” Will concedes. Once again, he peers down into his drink, giving it a swirl and a long sip before continuing. “I guess you would see it that way.” 

Amusing as his pouting has been, Hannibal has to wonder, “Are you dissatisfied with my company, Will?”

That earns him a long, cutting silence, all but sharp enough to damage the eardrums. 

“I should be,” Will eventually mutters against the rim of his glass. Another sip, then, “I’m not actually sure how I’m supposed to feel in a situation like this.” 

“You’re out of practice,” Hannibal observes, non-accusatory. The words are meant to sooth. 

Will appears anything but. “I don’t think any amount of practice could prepare me for you, Doctor.” 

“When was the last time you lived with another person before your wife and son?” 

“It’s been a long time.” 

“And who was the other person? A college roommate perhaps.”

Will sees through him with a reflective, oceanic glare. “As if you don’t already know. You’re sure being obvious today.” 

“How so?” 

“You’re directing the flow of conversation towards my dad again. You could try just asking me outright for a change.”

Hannibal smiles. “Now where would be the fun in that?” 

Will smiles back, though it does not meet his eyes. He stands up shortly after, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp before heading back through the screen door. Hannibal follows only a minute later. 

He decides to take Will's advice. “Was your father very strict with you? You described him as 'militant' before, but failed to elaborate.” 

Air-conditioning means it's colder inside the house, but pleasantly so. Perhaps that is why Will shivers where he stands washing his glass at the sink. The harsh look he gives Hannibal afterwards can’t be interpreted to mean anything except, ‘why the hell are you asking _that?’_

“The other day you answered my concerns sarcastically. ‘Yes, dad,’ you said. I was wondering if that was a habit you carried with you from your past. Is that how you typically addressed your father?” 

Will’s expression is sour and disdainfully incredulous, most likely at the notion that Hannibal might feel even a modicum of sincere concern for his health. Mistaken as he is, it’s a mindset Hannibal cannot begrudge him. They both have plenty of reasons to mistrust each other still. Though in truth Hannibal trusts Will implicitly - not with his well-being of course, but with the task of never disappointing him. Again, he muses fondly on their fall.

“No,” Will says. “That wasn’t it. I just said that because I thought it would surprise you.”

 _And how right you were,_ Hannibal silently adds. 

Whatever else Will’s thinking waits until the glass is drying on the rack and he turns back to face Hannibal to present itself. His eyes are on something to the left of Hannibal’s head, and he sucks on his inner cheek unconsciously as he mulls over whatever it is he’s about to say. Then, right before he speaks, his expression suddenly tightens, nose scrunched as though smelling something foul. 

“It was ‘sir,’” he bites out. “Whether I’d broken a rule or he was setting a new one, I was always expected to address him with ‘the respect he deserved.’” 

The bitterness of his tone sparks something in Hannibal.

“Do you resent him for it?” 

Will sighs, visibly trying to release his tension as he rubs the side of his neck just below his right ear. “I loved my dad.”

“Of course you did, Will. And, as I’m sure you also know, such feelings are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they often go hand-in-hand.” Hannibal gives him a pointed look. “You love your father, but you resent the authority he held over you. You resent authority in general. It’s a remarkably common contradiction.” 

Will narrows his eyes. “Why do you think I avoided psychiatrists for so long?” He almost chuckles. “I resent other people thinking they know what’s best for me, regardless of their status in my life. Jack, Alana, my dad… you.” He pauses, seemingly pondering his own words. “Actually, I should take you off that list. You don’t want what's best for me so much as what's most interesting for you.” 

Had anyone else said such a thing to him, regardless of context, Hannibal would’ve been insulted. As it is, he finds he feels but mild discontent. “Or perhaps I simply want what’s best for both of us. Have you considered that?” 

This time Will does laugh, though mirthless. He does not deny it - of course he has. 

“I’m going to bed,” he declares instead, stretching his arms behind his back. 

Hannibal looks at the clock. They ate dinner at six. It’s nearing half-past eight now. Much too early for either of them to sleep usually.

“Headache?” 

Will walks past him, stopping in the wide arch between the kitchen and salon. With his back to Hannibal, he shakes his head. 

“Then I’ll join you,” Hannibal decides. 

When Will doesn’t give so much as a token protest, Hannibal takes it as a win. 

[...]

Twenty minutes later, Hannibal emerges from the shower to find Will in the middle of the bed in the process of discarding his shirt. He twists his neck sideways to watch Hannibal’s face as he tosses it over the side and onto the floor, likely trying to agitate him. Unfortunately for Will, Hannibal is merely amused by his childishness. And it works in his favor. 

He stalks over to the bed, one hand holding the towel around his waist up as he glances briefly between Will and his shirt before bending to pick it up. He knows Will is seeking reassurances through defiance, even though he himself might not be aware of the reason. Instead, he holds the shirt out to him. 

“Put it where it belongs,” Hannibal all but orders, tone stern without crossing over into theatricality.

Will stares at him with eyes burning. If looks could kill… for them it’s a romantic sort of notion. It’s not nearly enough to influence - to ignite him fully, Hannibal knows from experience, but he can’t help wondering, “what if?” And when Will ultimately does reluctantly reach out to abide, Hannibal drops the shirt and grabs him. His next words come as a surprise to them both. 

“What do you say?”

Will’s face goes completely blank. He tries to snatch his arm back, but Hannibal’s grip around his wrist is unfaltering. For what feels like hours they simply stare unblinkingly into each other’s eyes, interlocked in a quiet contest of wills. Though while the challenge for Will is not to pull away, for Hannibal it is quite the opposite, and it’s a game he’s perfectly content to lose time and time again. 

“Will…”

The face he makes is positively livid, but his voice is steady and not raised. “Shut up - shut _the fuck_ up or I’ll rip your fucking tongue out, Hannibal.”

“With your teeth?” he can’t help but tease.

Will doesn’t answer. 

Of course, Hannibal is used to having the upperhand, but it’s altogether more rapturous knowing that Will has _handed_ it to him. He will snarl and bark as he pleases, but it is all part of the game. Will wants Hannibal to grant him permission to let go of culpability, to say “I’m not giving you a choice.” But Hannibal has no intention of allowing himself to be baited, not anymore. If Will doesn’t fall in line with the rules, then they need to be reworked. There must be balance; it’s as simple as that. 

So, Hannibal lets him go. 

“By holding onto your resentment, you continue to put its power in your father’s hands. What use does all that energy serve in such a place, caged between the fingers of a rotting corpse? Don’t you wish to reclaim it?” he asks, taking a step back. He’s well aware that Will knows he’s being false even before he spits out his reply. 

“By passing it onto you?” He scoffs loudly, slumping back down on the bed. “You’re disgusting - you _disgust_ me,” he says, sounding rather resigned. 

Hannibal refrains from pointing out the obvious fact, which is that Will’s resentment towards his dead father would comparatively be but a raindrop in the ocean of resentment he already feels towards Hannibal - and that also means a little rain is not nearly enough to swallow their world whole, let alone erode it. Though he is sorely tempted. No matter its truth, Will would only see this as goading or, at the very least, Hannibal stroking their collective ego.

“You said before that you remain with me for fear of losing yourself,” he recalls instead. “Do you still believe that’s true?” 

Will’s face reveals nothing. “Yes.”

“Are you disgusted with yourself as well then?” 

“Yes,” he hisses violently, looking away. “For continuing to fall. Over and over again. For waking every morning and still seeing that cliff above me getting further and further away.” 

He pauses, covers his eyes with one hand, and begins grinding his teeth. Hannibal wants to put something between them for him to bite. If he didn’t rely on them so much, he would offer his fingers. Or his tongue perhaps, if that’s what Will wants. 

“I see you,” he whispers then, a melodic hush.

“More clearly than anyone before you,” Hannibal agrees, an intense warmth abruptly expanding deep inside of his gut. 

Will removes his arm, staring up at him with dilated pupils, his mouth set in a hard line. 

“Why are you here, Will?” Hannibal asks, not accusatory, just genuinely wanting to know. 

He doesn’t expect a response, nor does he get one. Will simply stares at him for a moment longer before rising from the bed. Though they’ve only just settled in for the night, he begins to dress. Hannibal drops the towel in the hamper and does the same, trailing not far behind when Will goes down the hall to the room they’ve been using as a sort of office (not that either of them has much work to speak of). There, he reaches into the drawer where Hannibal keeps his drawings of Will’s sobbing face. 

He wasn’t aware Will knew of their location, though he’s not particularly shocked. Much more shocking is when he silently takes them to the kitchen, reaches for the candle lighter, and sets them aflame inside of the stainless steel sink. After opening a window to air out the smoke, he at last turns back to Hannibal. As the drawings burn away to ash behind him, Will stares unyieldingly into his eyes. Then, when the last ember has died out, he brushes past, shoulders the bag he keeps packed for impromptu fishing days, and swiftly disappears out the front door. 

Hannibal watches him go with a smile. 

[...]

When Will does not immediately return come morning, nor noon, nor night, Hannibal isn’t angry or pained per say. The rush of endorphins is similar, but not quite equal.

Though he may have predicted this, he can only predict so much at a time. What is Will feeling? What is it that drives him to act as he does? Hannibal has had a truly excessive amount of practice in pondering these and similar questions. If this were a recipe he would have mastered it long ago, no matter how complex. Yet the metaphor is lacking. 

He can not achieve that same meditative monotony here as he does in his other passions. No muscle memory exists beyond the urge to reach out and touch. But then, how long and with how much of his body should he tenderize the meat? It never comes out of the oven looking as expected. And to be perfectly honest, he isn’t quite sure _how_ it’s supposed to taste. And while often it should, and does, make his stomach churn, it’s rarely in pain. 

To call it love is perhaps too simple an answer, though accurate. Knowing this, however, does not ward off the curiosity; it only heightens it. They would not be together still otherwise. After all, though sometimes simple, love itself is nothing if not an innately curious thing. And Hannibal’s love for Will? An absolute anomaly. 

So, he keeps practicing daily, because he knows not what else to do. And all the while, he keeps hoping that the day he is able to fully predict Will Graham never comes. 

Lying alone again in bed that night, Hannibal returns to their conversation, combing through the lake for evidence over and over until he steadily sinks into darkness. But even then, he dreams of it. Will’s words. Will’s face.

Hannibal awakens to the sound of heavy wind and waves. He is still alone, but the clouds are white and voluptuous between large patches of blindingly azure sky, and he feels as though the slate has been wiped clean somehow. 

Breakfast that morning is particularly inspired, not to mention grand. It’s only the sound of the front door opening which prompts Hannibal to pause in his work and check the clock: 9:51AM. He’s glad that Will has returned before noon at least. 

When he enters the kitchen, his hair is damp, and he brings with him the scent of some generic soap. Hannibal takes this to mean he slept in a hotel and not on the streets as he initially suspected. Another small mercy. Though, for all his irrationality, since taking them over that bluff, Will has had a stark sense of self-preservation about him, and Hannibal finds he has to chide himself for not having faith in him in that area of their lives. After all, Will worries far more for preserving their freedom than he does these days.

Not to say Hannibal is complacent about it. Rather, he is too confident in his abilities to truly “worry.” Just as he is confident in his ability to mis-predict Will’s actions and reap the benefits of his devotion nevertheless. Given time, Will will one day gain a similar sense of security no doubt. And Hannibal is nothing if not patient. Though, admittedly, a little eager. 

Will does not speak right away. The budding anticipation in the air tells Hannibal that he is being waited on. Sparing Will but a polite, acknowledging glance, he continues with his preparations for a bit longer, letting the tension thicken and grow soft from the moisture blowing in off the sea while the eggs sizzle in the pan. If Will expects to be asked where he’s been, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. 

“Is there anyone alive that you trust?” Will finally says in lieu of a greeting.

Hannibal can’t stop his hands from pausing, belying his shock. But he quickly recovers, smirking subtly, though he doesn’t turn to show it.

“Yes,” he answers, keeping his tone light. “I trust you, Will. Implicitly.” 

He knows without looking that Will is scowling at him. 

“How?” comes his skeptical response. 

This time Hannibal does turn off the burner and move to face him. He says nothing, knowing that Will has the answer or, at the very least, the capability of unearthing it within himself. His expression is blank again, but Hannibal detects in it the remnants of carefully schooled agitation. Beneath the smell of soap, the distinct aroma of sea salt and exhaustion is now apparent as well, though subdued. 

“I could still leave you,” Will says, a threat. 

“Would you?” 

He slowly shakes his head. 

“Then my trust is well founded.” 

“If you trust me to trust you enough to be honest, sure.” 

Hannibal smiles warmly at him. 

Will squints. “What are you planning?” he wonders, though he must know not to expect an answer.

As if Hannibal would simply reveal his process to the subject of the experiment.

He turns to the stove once more. It’s a display of trust in and of itself, showing his back to a wild animal like this. Will must recognize the gesture, for he sighs huffily and drops himself into a seat at the counter as though settling in for a long, excruciating debate.

“Do you trust me, Will?” 

He laughs once. “About as far as I can throw you.” 

“You’re free to try if you’d like. I’m sure with a good spin you’d be able to get me at least a few feet,” Hannibal jokes. 

Will makes a sharp _“CHH!”_ sound through his teeth. 

Hannibal decides to test his luck. “And did you trust your wife?” 

“Molly was never very good at hiding how she really felt.” 

“She’s much smaller than I am as well. I imagine that made her easier to throw.” 

Will stays silent for a beat, likely glaring at him again. When he does speak, his voice comes out unexpectedly vulnerable. 

“I trusted her,” he says, “enough to share my bed with her every night. And my life. Unlike most of the people I’ve been close to, nothing she said or did ever made me question how she felt about me. So, yeah, I did. I still do.”

Hannibal is well aware Will is saying this to provoke him. Nonetheless, he can’t help himself from prodding back, peering over his shoulder. “But not enough to share your truth with her. Tell me, Will, how much did she know about me - about us before you married her?”

Will shrugs. “She knew what she needed to know.”

“But not everything. What might’ve happened, had you shared with her the whole truth? Were you afraid she would reject you?”

“I knew she would; that's what made her safe,” Will tells him. “She’d be crazy not to.”

His inflections speak volumes. 

“Indeed, that is how most sane people would choose to perceive the situation,” Hannibal concurs. He stops to consider his next words. “I must admit, I find myself wondering from where such insecurity stems however. You once presented yourself as being complacent, if not content in your solitude. What changed?” 

The sound of rustling fabric and footsteps draws Hannibal’s eye. He turns to see Will approaching him; the look on his face is dark and focused. 

“I did,” he divulges frankly. “You changed me. It wasn't just deliberate, it was meticulous. You awakened something in me you knew wouldn't go back to sleep until it was fed.” 

Hannibal takes a second to turn off the heat and plate the food. Once he’s finished with the garnish, he faces Will head-on.

“A hibernating bear,” he ripostes. 

Will shows his teeth; Hannibal fondly recalls how they looked lacquered in blood. He imagines licking them clean.

“Something like that.” 

The silence that follows is precarious at best. Only once the table is set and they are both settled into their respective seats does Hannibal break it. 

“How old were you when you first began living alone?” 

“Why?” is Will’s short reply. 

“I’m merely curious, Will. Indulge me.” 

At that, he first glances down at his plate then stares up over Hannibal’s head. The window behind him, he knows, overlooks a rocky copse filled to the brim with fruit-bearing trees. He can see their colors reflected in Will’s pupils. 

“I was barely seventeen,” Will quietly says as though confessing to some heinous crime. "Got my GED and left as fast as I legally could." 

“So young,” Hannibal notes, a bit patronizing and laced with sugary, surface-level pity. “What about your father? He took no issue with allowing his teenage son to go off on his own before he’d even reached the age of majority?” 

Will’s mouth twists up. The chair legs squeal against the hardwood as he suddenly pushes back. 

“It was his idea.” 

And without having taken a single bite of his breakfast (though at this time, it constitutes brunch) he swiftly departs through the kitchen. His footsteps are heavy going up the stairs, Hannibal observes. He’s touched a nerve, and a uniquely useful one at that. 

Hannibal plays another game of thought. He does not attempt to put himself in Will’s shoes - no, that would be too arrogant, too presumptuous on his part, almost verging on rude - but he does picture its equivalent. It almost feels unthinkable, like blasphemy to continue down this mental path for too long. And for a man so well versed in traversing blasphemes, perhaps he ought to worry for how shaken it leaves him. But worrying is not within his nature. 

So, Hannibal allows himself to imagine the one thing in this world which actually comes close to frightening him, as he has so many times before. An empty chair, an empty house, an empty life… Then he exacerbates the wound with empathy (or some approximation of it) as he assumes Will might, and the sense of dread and dreadful shame which it drudges up is so all-encompassing that, for a brief flicker in time, he gets lost in it. 

What a pair they make, he muses when it’s done. So similarly different. 

The plan begins to evolve from there. 

He follows Will upstairs. The food can wait this time. No matter how many hours went into the preparation, it doesn’t matter - the importance of this moment eclipses it entirely. 

Will is lying on the bed when he enters, his back to the door. His breathing is too uneven for him to be sleeping, but he remains very still otherwise, even as Hannibal approaches. He sits on the edge, and only then does Will shift his position to accommodate the undulation of the mattress. Momentarily, Hannibal considers turning him over himself - considers making him look - but instantly thinks better of it. From this angle, he sees now that his eyes are closed, lashes especially dark against the malnourished pallor of his cheeks. 

“I apologize for the attack, Will. I was perhaps a bit hasty,” he begins. “My intention was only to foster mutual transparency; I would very much like for us to trust each other. I realize it might seem unlikely to you...” 

“Understatement of the century,” Will shoots back. 

“But it’s not something I expect to happen over night,” Hannibal assures him, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken. “And certainly not without encouragement.” 

This piques Will’s interest. He almost glances over his shoulder at him before rolling onto his back and fixing his gaze to the safe, white ceiling. 

“You were trying to make me upset,” he mutters, less accusing than simply stating a fact. “Your goal was to make me cry. Probably still is.” 

“I’ve since come to realize that my obsession with your tearful face was only ever a manifestation of my desire for honesty,” Hannibal tries, as effortless as ever. “If we can find a way to be candid with each other, then the fantasy will be bereft of fuel and could easily flicker out on its own. A wet log will not burn after all.” 

Another pregnant silence sits festering. 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Sacrament,” says Hannibal, unable to hold back his grin. “An exchanging of vows of sorts, if you care to think of it that way.” 

Finally, Will looks at him - really, truly _looks at him_ for what feels like the first time in weeks, months, years even. There’s a hint of bloody intrigue to it. 

“What do you want, Hannibal?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “Just say it.”

Hannibal leans over and places his right hand on Will’s chest, right where the sternum dips down into an arch of costal cartilage. He lightly massages the muscles with his fingers, making Will flinch, though he doesn’t push him off or pull away. Miraculously, he swallows around nothing and covers Hannibal’s hand with his own, halting the caress. 

“What’s there?” he questions cautiously. 

“Your kidney.” 

“You want to eat it,” Will takes his time to say, as though he’s afraid the words might slice his tongue off if spoken too quickly. 

Hannibal pulls himself fully up onto the bed and takes Will’s hand into his, guiding it to the same spot on his own abdomen with another very meaningful glint in his eye. 

“You want me to…” Will trails off, looking rather awed. He gently extracts his hand and uses it to rub his forehead, closing his eyes again. 

“I want you to have a piece of me. I want us to have a piece of each other,” Hannibal emphasizes. “Does that disgust you, Will?”

His eyes snap back open, darting across Hannibal’s face. He wets his lips. 

“I’m not sure yet,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took wayyyyyy longer for me to finish than it was supposed to (srsly, I don't even want to know how long, don't tell me), but that's because I promised myself I wouldn't work on any fics except my main one, "Night Island Sacrament," until it's done. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm extremely overambitious and started to feel really burnt out about it, and then on top of that I started to feel bad for not updating this fic in however many months. So, fortunately for anyone who wanted more Bad Romance (C) Lady Gaga (but this time it's gay cannibals) in their life, I decided to spend the last 3 days hurrying to get this chapter done so I can go back to slowly writing NIS guilt free for another 4 months lol 
> 
> Also life kinda just...... happened to me recently. You know, when the despair hits real hard, but you still gotta go to work and order your college textbooks? Anyway...
> 
> Until next time.......................................


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